[GILTSTONE ROCK;]
OR, THE SLAVER IN THE SOLWAY.
The Betsey-Jane sailed out of the Firth,
As the Waits sang "Christ is born on earth"—
The Betsey-Jane sailed out of the Firth,
On Christmas-day in the morning.
The wind was East, the moon was high,
Of a frosty blue was the spangled sky,
And the bells were ringing, and dawn was nigh,
And the day was Christmas morning.
In village and town woke up from sleep,
From peaceful visions and slumbers deep—
In village and town woke up from sleep,
On Christmas-day in the morning,
The many that thought on Christ the King,
And rose betimes their gifts to bring,
And "peace on earth and good will" to sing,
As is meet upon Christmas morning.
The Betsey-Jane pass'd village and town,
As the Gleemen sang, and the stars went down—
The Betsey-Jane pass'd village and town,
That Christmas-day in the morning;
And the Skipper by good and by evil swore,
The bells might ring and the Gleemen roar,
But the chink of his gold would chime him o'er
Those waves, next Christmas morning.
And out of the Firth with his reckless crew,
All ready his will and his work to do—
Out of the Firth with his reckless crew
He sailed on a Christmas morning!
He steer'd his way to Gambia's coast;
And dealt for slaves; and Westward cross'd;
And sold their lives, and made his boast
As he thought upon Christmas morning.
And again and again from shore to shore,
With his human freight for the golden ore—
Again and again from shore to shore,
Ere Christmas-day in the morning,
He cross'd that deep with never a thought
Of the sorrow, or wrong, or suffering wrought
On souls and bodies thus sold and bought
For gold, against Christmas morning!
And at length, with his gold and ivory rare,
When the sun was low and the breeze was fair—
At length with his gold and ivory rare
He sailed, that on Christmas morning
He might pass both village and town again
When the bells were ringing, as they rung then,
When he pass'd them by in the Betsey-Jane,
On that last bright Christmas morning.
The Betsey-Jane sailed into the Firth,
As the bells rang "Christ is born on earth"—
The Betsey-Jane sailed into the Firth,
And it was upon Christmas morning!
The wind was west, the moon was high,
Of a hazy blue was the spangled sky,
And the bells were ringing, and dawn was nigh,
Just breaking on Christmas morning.
The Gleemen singing of Christ the King,
Of Christ the King, of Christ the King—
The Gleemen singing of Christ the King,
Hailed Christmas-day in the morning;
When the Betsey-Jane with a thundering shock
Went ripping along on the Giltstone Rock,
In sound of the bells which seemed to mock
Her doom on that Christmas morning.
With curse and shriek and fearful groan,
On the foundering ship, in the waters lone—
With curse and shriek and fearful groan,
They sank on that Christmas morning!
The Skipper with arms around his gold,
Scared by dark spirits that loosed his hold,
Was down the deep sea plunged and roll'd
In the dawn of that Christmas morning:—
While village and town woke up from sleep,
From peaceful visions and slumbers deep—
While village and town woke up from sleep,
That Christmas-day in the morning!
And many that thought on Christ the King,
Rose up betimes their gifts to bring,
And, "peace on earth and good will to sing,"
Went forth in the Christmas morning!
NOTE.
The rock thus named, lies off the harbour at Harrington, on the coast of Cumberland, and is only visible at low water during spring tides.
The Gleemen, or Waits, as the Christmas minstrels are called, still keep up their annual rounds, with song and salutation, and with a heartiness and zeal, which have been well described by the great Poet of the Lake district in those feeling and admirable verses to his brother, Dr. Wordsworth, prefixed to his Sonnets on the River Duddon.
In the parish of Muncaster, on the eve of the new year, the children go from house to house, singing a ditty, which craves the bounty, "they were wont to have, in old king Edward's days." There is no tradition whence this custom arose; the donation is two-pence or a pie at every house. Mr. Jefferson suggests, may not the name have been altered from Henry to Edward? and may it not have an allusion to the time when King Henry the sixth was entertained at Muncaster Castle in his flight from his enemies?
CRIER OF CLAIFE.
A wild holloa on Wynander's shore,
'Mid the loud waves' splash and the night-wind's roar!
Who cries so late with desperate note,
Far over the water, to hail the boat?
'Tis night's mid gloom; the strong rain beats fast:
Is there one at this hour will face the blast,
And the darkness traverse with arm and oar,
To ferry the Crier from yonder shore?
A mile to cross, and the skies so dread;
With a storm around that would wake the dead;
And fathoms of boiling depths below;
The ferry is hailed, and the boat must go.
Snug under that cliff, whence over the Mere,
When summer is merry and skies are clear,
In holiday times hearts light and gay
Look over the hills and far away—
At the Ferry-house Inn, sat warm beside
The bright wood-fire and hearthstone wide,
A rollicking band of jovial souls
With tinkling cans and full brown bowls.
Without, the sycamores' branches rode
The storm, as if fiends the roof bestrode;
Yet stout of heart, to that wild holloa
The ferryman smiled—"The boat must go."
His comrades followed out into the dark,
As the young man strode to the tumbling bark;
And, wishing him luck in the perilous storm,
With a shudder went back to the fireside warm.
An hour is gone! against wind and wave
Well struggled and strove that heart so brave.
Another! they crowd to the whistling door,
To welcome the guide and his freight to shore.
But pallid, and stunn'd, aghast, alone,
He stood in the boat, and speech had none:
His lips were locked, and his eyes astare,
And blanched with terror his manly hair.
What thing he had seen, what utterance heard,
What horror that night his senses stirr'd,
Was frozen within him, and choked his breath,
And laid him, ere morning, cold in death.
But what that night of horror revealed,
And what that night of horror concealed
Of spirits and powers in storms that roam,
Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm.
Still, under the cliff—whence over the Mere,
When summer was merry and skies were clear,
In holiday times hearts light and gay
Looked over the hills and far away—
When the rough winds blew amid rain and cold,
The Ferry-house gathered its hearts of old,
Who sat at the hearth and o'er the brown ale,
Oft talked of that night and its dismal tale.
And often the Crier was heard to wake
The night's foul echoes across the lake;
But never again would a hand unmoor
The boat, to venture by night from shore:
Till they sought the good monk of St. Mary's Holm,
With relics of saints and beads from Rome,
To row to the Nab on Hallowmas night,
And bury the Crier by morning's light.
With Aves muttered, and spells unknown,
The monk rows over the Mere alone;
Like a feather his bark floats light and fast;
When the Crier's loud hail sweeps down the blast.
Speed on, bold heart, with gifts of grace!
He is nearing the wild fiend-blighted place.
Now heed thee, foul spirit! the priest has power
To bind thee on earth till the morning hour.
He rests his oars; and the faint blue gleam
From a marsh-light sheds on the ground its beam.
There's a stir in the grass; and there's ONE on a knoll,
Unearthly and horrid to sight and soul.
That horrible cry rings through the dark,
As the monk steps out of the grounding bark;
And he charms a circle around the knoll,
Wherein he must sit till the mass bell toll.
Then over the lake, with the fiend in tow,
To the quarry beyond the monk will go,
And bury the Crier with book and bell,
While the birds of morning sing him farewell.
The morn awoke. As the breezy smile
Of dawn played over St. Mary's Isle,
The tinkling sound of the mass-bell rose,
And startled the valleys from brief repose.
Then, like a speck from afar descried,
The monk row'd out on the waters wide—
From the Nab row'd out, with the fiend in his wake,
To lay him in quiet, across the lake.
And fear-struck men, and women that bore
Their babes, beheld from height and shore,
How he reached the wood that hid the dell,
Where he laid the Crier with book and bell.
"For the ivy green" the spell was told;
"For the ivy green" his knell was knoll'd;
That as long as by wall and greenwood tree
The ivy flourished, his rest might be.
So did the good monk; and thus was laid
The Crier in ground by greenwood shade.
In the quarry of Claife the wretched ghost
To human ear for ever was lost.
And country folk in peace again
Went forth by night through field and lane,
Nor dreaded to hear that terrible note
Cry over the water, and hail the boat.
And still on that cliff, high over the Mere,
When summer is merry, and skies are clear,
In holiday times hearts light and gay
Look over the hills and far away.
But what that night of horror revealed,
And what that night and morrow concealed,
Of spirits so wicked and given to roam,
Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm.
Peace be with him, peaceful soul!
Long his bell has ceased to toll.
Green the Isle that folds his breast;
Clear the Lake that lull'd his rest.
Though the many ages gone
Long have left his place unknown;
Yet where once he kneel'd and pray'd,
By his altar long decay'd,
Stranger to this Island led!
Humbly speak and softly tread;
Catching from the ages dim
This, the burden of his hymn:—
"Ave, Thou before whose name
Wrath and shadows swiftly flee!
Arm Thy faithful bands with flame,
Earth from foulest foes to free.
"Peace on all these valleys round,
Breathe from out this Islet's breast;
Wafting from this holy ground
Seeds of Thy eternal rest.
"Wrath and Evil, then no more
Here molesting, all shall cease.
Peace around! From shore to shore—
Peace! On all Thy waters—peace!"